Ann Arbor Review


Deji Adesoye
Changming Yuan
Violeta Allmuca
Beppe Costa
Engjell I. Berisha
Narendra Kumar Arya
Akwu Sunday Victor
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Laszlo Slomovits
Stefania Battistella
Agron Shele
Lana Bella
Fahredin Shehu
Alan Britt
Silvia Scheibli
Shutta Crum
Running Cub
Alex Ferde

Irsa Ruci
Jennifer Burd
Paul B. Roth
Richard Gartee
Elisavietta Ritchie
Peycho Kanev
Helen Gyigya
Amit Parmessur
Sneha Subramanian Kanta
Robert Nisbet

Jeton Kelmendi
Duane Locke

Lyn Lifshin

Richard Lynch
Jean McNerney
Fred Wolven

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2017 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 48 years all together....


Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:




My tongue is white. Immobile. Speechless.
It is tired after an afternoon of shoveling snow
from between my teeth. It craves for piping hot coffee,
it dreams of Tim Tams, and warm pancakes, lovingly,
and without my mouth’s go-ahead.

Every heartbeat seems dead, despite the lovely cold cotton.
No more songs in the sky. Under my feet, no more crunchy twigs.
The winter has wrecked every petal. I would do
with a lovelorn circle dance to beguile my heart’s lethargy
near the feisty fireplace.

The pregnant snow dunes ogle at me every hour,
as if they know something I can’t, as if they feel they
can coax me into sharing their nothingness; there’s a handful
of snowflakes refusing to melt in my mind these days.
I want to love.

In the naked trees covered by the black ice, I see my hopes
hanging, all shaking, unprotected; each time I open or close
the door, it hits my empty womb – a spooky wind shudders
and runs by the aisle in the house. It tells me to stop
carrying the caprices of childlessness.



Give them back! Give my tears back,
right now – with interest. ― NATSUKI TAKAYA

The tear of a woman
is not any soft bouquet of roses
to be laid on a table to embellish the house.

Why make a woman weep?
Allay her fears; she’s just like a bee.
Annoy her, she stings you.
Feed her with the beauty of patience,
she’ll bring you loads of honey.

Show her the eternal mirror of understanding.
Stroke her with your heartbeats.

If ever you think a woman’s tear
is a bouquet of roses, dry it with dedication,
with love, with a woman in you too.

The tear of a woman is a pregnant cloud;
it can unfurl a tornado.
Learn to preserve a woman.
Learn to grow with a woman.
Learn to let a woman sing.
Learn not to slash a woman’s beauty.

Travel with a woman’s softness and
remember a woman is not like metallic petals,
so let your healthy ego die
to let her flowers come out in peace.

Why make women weep? Why?
To weep with them?
The tear of a woman kills the heart.
The tear of a woman might be a soft bouquet
of roses if laid beside a man’s tear,
on the same table.



I am no bird; and no net ensnares me:
I am a free human being with
an independent will. — CHARLOTTE BRONTË

She’d erased many a cunning caesura to find
the right rhythm. She’d bruised many a frail
finger to find the right alliteration. Now she is
the epigraph of her own poetry. The mirror her
only nemesis. Her sensuality laid on a white
mattress, her young eyes dreaming of a
tangible horizon, wrapped in gossipy waves.
She is ever eager to understand the diction of
the loudest hush ever. She is like a liger, she
who enjoys swimming, she who adores people.
You like her; she likes you. You cross her;
she’s gone. Either you shape up or you ship
out, because her toes speak of freedom to
imprisoned skies. Her legs are more beautiful
than beauty. She is maybe the most marvelous

The friendly fire in her belly can blind the
most immortal moon. Her broad black hips
and black curls might handcuff history’s
history. And there is a fierce dragon burning
along the page between her plump breasts,
while her dauntless belly button would love to
be taken as a pure pit by a talented painter who
would draw orange and purple and pale blue
pulp all around it. She wants people to know
that Eve didn’t touch the fruit that was meant
not to be touched.

To see her swim, laugh, run from crabs and
urchins and be herself is living poetry. By
making place for poetry in her room, you
make room for herself in herself. Does anyone
have a map? I’m stuck in this rich woman’s
melodious cacophony. Or is she lost in mine? I
don’t think so.


Amit Parmessur, Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius


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